Oblomov.
By Goncharov, Ivan Aleksandrovich, 1812-1891.
Translated from the Russian by C. J. Hogarth
Notes by translator.
Reprint of the 1915 ed. published by Macmillan, New York.
ISBN 0-8376-0451-6 (Robert Bentley, Cambridge, Mass.)
First published in Russian 1858
First published in English 1915
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
PZ3.G5875Ob 1979 [PG3337.G6] 891.7'3'3 79-19061

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Oblomov

By Ivan Goncharov

(1858)

Part 1
Chapter 1

ONE morning, in a flat in one of the great
buildings in
Gorokhovaia Street,
the population of which was sufficient to constitute that
of a provincial town, there was lying in bed a
gentleman named Ilya Ilyitch Oblomov. He was a
fellow of a little over thirty, of medium height,
and of pleasant exterior. Unfortunately, in his
dark-grey eyes there was an absence of any
definite idea, and in his other features a total
lack of concentration. Suddenly a thought would
wander across his face with the freedom of a bird,
flutter for a moment in his eyes, settle on his
half-opened lips, and remain momentarily lurking
in the lines of his forehead. Then it would
disappear, and once more his face would glow with
a radiant insouciance which extended even to his
attitude and the folds of his night-robe. At
other times his glance would darken as with
weariness or ennui. Yet neither the one nor the
other expression could altogether banish from his
countenance that gentleness which was the ruling,
the fundamental, characteristic, not only of his
features, but also of the spirit which lay beneath
them. That spirit shone in his eyes, in his
smile, and in his every movement of hand and head.
On glancing casually at Oblomov a cold, a
superficially observant person would have said,
"Evidently he is good-natured, but a simpleton";
whereas a person of greater penetration and
sympathy than the first would have prolonged his
glance, and then gone on his way thoughtfully, and
with a smile as though he were pleased with
something.

Oblomov's face was neither reddy nor dull nor
pale, but of an indefinite hue. At all events,
that was the impression which it gave--possibly
because, through insufficiency of exercise, or
through want of fresh air, or through a lack of
both, he was wrinkled beyond his years. In
general, to judge from the extreme whiteness of
his bare neck, his small, puffy hands, and his
soft shoulders, one would conclude that he
possessed an effeminate body. Even when excited,
his actions were governed by an unvarying
gentleness, added to a lassitude that was not
devoid of a certain peculiar grace. On the other
hand, should depression of spirits show itself in
his face, his glance would grow dull, and his brow
furrowed, as doubt, despondency, and apprehension
fell to contending with one another. Yet this
crisis of emotion seldom crystallized into the
form of a definite idea--still less into that of a
fixed resolve. Almost always such emotion
evaporated in a sigh, and shaded off into a sort
of apathetic lethargy.

Oblomov's indoor costume corresponded exactly
with the quiet outlines of his face and the
effeminacy of his form. The costume in question
consisted of a dressing-gown of some Persian
material--a real Eastern dressing-gown--a garment
that was devoid both of tassels and velvet facings
and a waist, yet so roomy that Oblomov might have
wrapped himself in it once or twice over. Also,
in accordance with the immutable custom of Asia,
its sleeves widened steadily from knuckles to
shoulder. True, it was a dressing-gown which had
lost its pristine freshness, and had, in places,
exchanged its natural, original sheen for one
acquired by hard wear; yet still it retained both
the clarity of its Oriental colouring and the
soundness of its texture. In Oblomov's eyes it
was a garment possessed of a myriad invaluable
qualities, for it was so soft and pliable that,
when wearing it, the body was unaware of its
presence, and, like an obedient slave, it answered
even to the slightest movement. Neither waistcoat
nor cravat did Oblomov wear when indoors, since he
loved freedom and space. For the same reason his
slippers were long, soft, and broad, to the end
that, whenever he lowered his legs from the bed to
the floor without looking at what he was doing,
his feet might fit into the slippers at once.

With Oblomov, lying in bed was neither a
necessity (as in the case of an invalid or of a
man who stands badly in need of sleep) nor an
accident (as in the case of a man who is feeling
worn out) nor a gratification (as in the case of a
man who is purely lazy). Rather, it represented
his normal condition. Whenever he was at
home--and almost always he was at home--he would
spend his time in lying on his back. Likewise he
used but the one room--which was combined to serve
both as bedroom, as study, and as
reception-room--in which we have just discovered
him. True, two other rooms lay at his disposal,
but seldom did he look into them save on mornings
(which did not comprise by any means every
morning) when his old valet happened to be
sweeping out the study. The furniture in them
stood perennially covered over, and never were the
blinds drawn up.

At first sight the room in which Oblomov was
lying was a well-fitted one. In it there stood a
writing-table of redwood, a couple of sofas,
upholstered in some silken material, and a
handsome screen that was embroidered with birds
and fruits unknown to Nature. Also the room
contained silken curtains, a few mats, some
pictures, bronzes, and pieces of china, and a
multitude of other pretty trifles. Yet even the
most cursory glance from the experienced eye of a
man of taste would have detected no more than a
tendency to observe les convenances while escaping
their actual observance. Without doubt that was
all that Oblomov had thought of when furnishing
his study. Taste of a really refined nature would
never have remained satisfied with such ponderous,
ungainly redwood chairs, with such rickety
whatnots. Moreover, the back of one of the sofas
had sagged, and, here and there, the wood had come
away from the glue. Much the same thing was to be
seen in the case of the pictures, the vases, and
certain other trifles of the apartment.
Nevertheless, its master was accustomed to regard
its appurtenances with the cold, detached eye of
one who would ask, "Who has dared to bring this
stuff here?" The same indifference on his part,
added to, perhaps, an even greater indifference on
the part of his servant, Zakhar, caused the study,
when contemplated with attention, to strike the
beholder with an impression of all-prevailing
carelessness and neglect. On the walls and around
the pictures there hung cobwebs coated with dust;
the mirrors, instead of reflecting, would more
usefully have served as tablets for recording
memoranda; every mat was freely spotted with
stains; on the sofa there lay a forgotten towel,
and on the table (as on most mornings) a plate, a
salt-cellar, a half-eaten crust of bread, and some
scattered crumbs--all of which had failed to be
cleared away after last night's supper. Indeed,
were it not for the plate, for a recently smoked
pipe that was propped against the bed, and for the
recumbent form of Oblomov himself, one might have
imagined that the place contained not a single
living soul, so dusty and discoloured did
everything look, and so lacking were any active
traces of the presence of a human being. True, on
the whatnots there were two or three open books,
while a newspaper was tossing about, and the
bureau bore on its top an inkstand and a few pens;
but the pages at which the books were lying open
were covered with dust and beginning to turn
yellow (thus proving that they had long been
tossed aside), the date of the newspaper belonged
to the previous year, and from the inkstand,
whenever a pen happened to be dipped therein,
there arose, with a frightened buzz, only a
derelict fly.

On this particular morning Oblomov had
(contrary to his usual custom) awakened at the
early hour of eight. Somehow he looked perturbed;
anxiety, regret, and vexation kept chasing one
another across his features. Evidently he had
fallen a prey to some inward struggle, and had not
yet been able to summon his wits to the rescue.
The fact of the matter was that, overnight, he had
received from the
starosta
of his country
estate an exceedingly unpleasant letter. We all
know what disagreeable things a starosta
can say in his letters--how he can tell of bad
harvests, of arrears of debt, of diminished
incomes, and so forth; and though this particular
official had been inditing precisely similar
epistles during the past three years, his latest
communication had affected its recipient as
powerfully as though Oblomov had received an
unlooked-for blow. Yet, to do Oblomov justice, he
had always bestowed a certain care upon his
affairs. Indeed, no sooner had he received the
starosta's first disturbing letter (he
had done so three years ago) than he had set about
devising a plan for changing and improving the
administration of his property. Yet to this day
the plan in question remained not fully thought
out, although long ago he had recognized the
necessity of doing something actually decisive.

Consequently, on awakening, he resolved to
rise, to perform his ablutions, and, his tea
consumed, to consider matters, to jot down a few
notes, and, in general, to tackle the affair
properly. Yet for another half-hour he lay prone
under the torture of this resolve; until
eventually he decided that such tackling could
best be done after tea, and that, as usual, he
would drink that tea in bed--the more so since a
recumbent position could not prove a hindrance to
thought.

Therefore he did as he had decided; and when
the tea had been consumed he raised himself upon
his elbow and arrived within an ace of getting out
of bed. In fact, glancing at his slippers, he
even began to extend a foot in their direction,
but presently withdrew it.

Half-past ten struck, and Oblomov gave himself
a shake. "What is the matter?," he said
vexedly. "In all conscience 'tis time that I
were doing something! Would I could make up my
mind to--to--" He broke off with a shout of
"Zahkar!" whereupon there entered an elderly man
in a grey suit and brass buttons--a man who
sported beneath a perfectly bald pate a pair of
long, bushy, grizzled whiskers that would have
sufficed to fit out three ordinary men with
beards. His clothes, it is true, were cut
according to a country pattern, but he cherished
them as a faint reminder of his former livery, as
the one surviving token of the dignity of the
house of Oblomov. The house of Oblomov was one
which had once been wealthy and distinguished, but
which, of late years, had undergone impoverishment
and diminution, until finally it had become lost
among a crowd of noble houses of more recent
creation.

For a few moments Oblomov remained too plunged
in thought to notice Zakhar's presence; but at
length the valet coughed.

"I called you, you say? Well, I cannot
remember why I did so. Return to your room until
I have remembered."

Zakhar retired, and Oblomov spent another
quarter of an hour in thinking over the accursed
letter.

"I have lain here long enough," at last he said
to himself. "Really, I must rise.
. . . But suppose I were to read the letter
through carefully and then to rise? Zakhar!"

Zakhar re-entered, and Oblomov straightway sank
into a reverie. For a minute or two the valet
stood eyeing his master with covert resentment.
Then he moved towards the door.

"Why are you going away?" Oblomov asked
suddenly.

"Because, barin, you have nothing to
say to me. Why should I stand here for nothing?"

"What? Have your legs become so shrunken that
you cannot stand for a moment or two? I am
worried about something, so you must
wait. You have just been lying down in your room
haven't you? Please search for the letter which
arrived from the starosta last night.
What have you done with it?"

"What letter? I have seen no letter,"
asserted Zakhar.

"But you took it from the postman yourself?"

"Maybe I did, but how am I to know where you
have since placed it?" The valet fussed about
among the papers and other things on the table.

"You never know anything," remarked his master.
"Look in that basket there. Or possibly the
letter has fallen behind the sofa? By the way,
the back of that sofa has not yet been mended.
Tell the joiner to come at once. It was you that
broke the thing, yet you never give it a thought!"

"I did not break it," retorted Zakhar.
"It broke of itself. It couldn't have lasted for
ever. It was bound to crack some day."

This was a point which Oblomov did not care to
contest. " Have you found the letter yet?" he
asked.

"Yes--several letters." But they are not what I
want."

"I can see no others," asserted Zakhar.

"Very well," was Oblomov's impatient reply. "I
will get up and search for the letter myself."

Zakhar retired to his room again, but had
scarcely rested his hands against his pallet
before stretching himself out, when once more
there came a peremptory shout of "Zahar! Zakhar!"

"Good Lord!" grumbled the valet as a third time
he made for the study. "Why should I be tormented
in this fashion? I would rather be dead!"

"My handkerchief!" cried Oblomov. "Yes, and
very quickly, too! You might have
guessed that that is what I am wanting."

Zakhar displayed no particular surprise or
offence at this reproachful command. Probably he
thought both the command and the reproach natural.

"Who knows where the handkerchief is?" he
muttered as he made a tour of the room and felt
each chair (although he could not but have
perceived that on them there was nothing
whatsoever lying). "You lose everything," he
added, opening the door into the parlour in order
to see whether the handkerchief might not be
lurking there.

"Where are you going?" exclaimed Oblomov.
"'Tis here you must search. I have not
been into those other rooms since the year before
last. Be quick, will you?"

"I see no handkerchief," said Zakhar, spreading
out his hands and peering into every corner.
"There it is!" suddenly he croaked.
"'Tis just underneath you. I can see its end
sticking out. You have been lying on it all the
time, yet you actually ask me to find it!" He
hobbled away without waiting for an answer. For a
moment or two Oblomov was taken aback, but soon
found another means of putting his valet in the
wrong.

"A nice way to do your cleaning!" he said.
"What a lot of dust and dirt, to be sure! Look at
those corners! You never bestir yourself at all."

"If I never bestir myself," retorted Zakhar
offendedly, "at least I do my best, and don't
spare myself, for I dust and sweep almost every
day. Everything looks clean and bright enough for
a wedding."

"What a lie!" cried Oblomov. "Be off to your
room again!"

That he had provoked Zakhar to engage in this
conversation was a fact which gave him small
pleasure. The truth was he had forgotten that,
once a delicate subject is touched upon, one
cannot well avoid a fuss. Though he wished his
rooms to be kept clean, he wished this task to be
carried out invisibly, and apart from himself;
whereas, whenever Zakhar was called upon to do
even the least sweeping or dusting, he made a
grievance of it.

After Zakhar had retired to his den Oblomov
relapsed into thought, until, a few minutes later,
the clock sounded a half-hour of some sort.

"What is that?" cried Oblomov in horror. "Soon
the time will be eleven, yet I am not yet up and
washed! Zakhar! Zakhar!"

Zakhar reappeared.

"Are my washing things ready?" his master
inquired.

"Yes, they have been ready a long time. Why do
you not get up?"

"And why didn't you tell me
that the things are ready? Had you done that, I
should have risen long ago. Go along, and I will
follow you; but at the moment I must sit down and
write a letter."

Zakhar left the room. Presently he reappeared
with a much-bescribbled, greasy account-book and a
bundle of papers.

"If you are going to write anything," he said,
"perhaps you would like to check these accounts at
the same time? Some money is due to be paid out."

"What accounts? What money?" inquired Oblomov
petulantly.

"The accounts sent in by the butcher, the
greengrocer, the laundress, and the baker. All
are wanting their money."

"Always money and worry!" grumbled Oblomov.
"Why do you not give me the accounts at intervals
instead of in a batch like this?"

"Because each time you have sent me away, and
then put matters off until the morrow."

"Well, these accounts can wait until the
morrow."

"No, they cannot, for the creditors are
pressing, and say they are going to allow you
nothing more on credit. To-day is the first of
the month, you must remember."

"Ah! Fresh cares, fresh worries!" cried
Oblomov gloomily. "Why are you standing there?
Lay the table, and I will rise, wash, and look
into the whole business. Is the water yet ready?"

"Quite."

Oblomov raised himself and grunted as though he
really intended to get out of bed.

"By the way," said Zakhar, "whilst you were
still asleep the manager of the building sent the
dvornik
to say that soon you must quit the
flat, since he wants it for some one else."

"Very well, then. We must go. Why worry me
about it? This is the third time you have done
so."

"But they keep worrying me about it."

"Then tell them that we intend to go."

Zakhar departed again, and Oblomov resumed his
reverie. How long he would have remained in this
state of indecision it is impossible to say had
not a ring at the doorbell resounded through the
hall.

"Some one has called, yet I am not yet up!"
exclaimed Oblomov as he slipped into his
dressing-gown. "Who can it be?"